


Moments

by redbeansoups



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25939174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbeansoups/pseuds/redbeansoups
Summary: An exploration of various scenarios, featuring our favorite characters.(A collection of Haikyuu/Reader one-shots! Tags will be added on as I write.)
Relationships: Kozume Kenma/Reader, Sawamura Daichi/Reader, Terushima Yuuji/Reader, Tsukishima Kei/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 79





	1. Golden (Sawamura Daichi)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which you find yourself in an unfulfilling relationship, and your dear friend Sawamura Daichi cares far too much.
> 
> A friends-to-lovers story, set a few years after the third-years graduate.

Your head is still spinning when the line begins to ring; once, twice, thrice, and then—

“Daichi,” you breathe, clutching the phone to your cheek. The metal is cool against the flush of your skin; the air around you is warm, stifling with the humidity of a long summer night.

“Hey,” comes the mumbled reply, followed by an influx of static. His voice is hoarse and riddled with sleep. You picture him then, under his covers, his head propped up against the pillow on one elbow and his phone held precariously in one hand, keychains dangling and falling against his wrist. “Is something the matter?”

You wish you could tell him no. “Maybe,” you answer. You kick at a rock somewhere on the ground, and it stumbles off of the asphalt and onto a patch of grass nearby. “Maybe,” you repeat, the words leaving your lips in a voice hardly above a whisper. It’s a miserable, raspy sound, and you can’t help but wince.

There’s a shuffle on the line, like a rustle of fabric, and you picture him sitting up. “Where are you now?” The hoarseness is gone now, replaced with the low, rumbling clarity you’ve grown to be familiar with. It’s grounding, and you feel the tenseness in your shoulders and hands begin to ease. “You’re not home, are you?”

You let out a chuckle–he’s perceptive as always, and the fact doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. “I’m outside,” you tell him, glancing around you. You’re standing before a local park, just a few blocks away from home; there’s a children’s playground nearby.

“The park?” he asks.

“That’s the one.”

There’s a hum, one you’re certain is accompanied with a firm nod. “Stay there, then,” he tells you. “I’ll be there in ten.”

“Okay,” you say. The line goes quiet, and you drop the phone to your side.

  


* * *

  


You’re by the swings as you see him.

Sawamura is a sight to behold as he approaches; you’re half-certain his shirt is on backward, and his hair is sticking awkwardly up on one side. One leg of his sweatpants is rolled up to his calves.

“You look good,” you say, neck craning up to meet his eyes. They’re bright and brown, flecks of gold visible even in the dimmed glow of the park’s streetlights.

“Very funny,” Sawamura quips. He moves to seat himself in the swing beside you; he’s larger and broader than you are, and the protest of the chains rings loud in your ears. You’re worried, momentarily, that the rubber seat may not support him; he seems to be following your line of thought, because his brows furrow at the noise. “I think I’ve outgrown this,” he notes, and you laugh.

“Probably,” you agree, gripping the chains beside you. The grooves of the metal press into your fingers, the weight familiar in your hands. “As have I,” you admit.

“Growing will do that to you,” he tells you. You watch as the corners of his lip quirk upward; his eyes crinkle warmly with the movement. You think of highschool for a brief moment; of autumn leaves falling around you, of popsicles in hand. Of bike rides with Sawamura, the two of you racing down the streets, pedaling haphazardly downhill.

Softly, you chuckle, and the sound hangs in the air. The city is quiet, even more so in the night; apart from the occasional sounds of distant cars, the two of you are left mostly in silence. 

Miyagi has always been this way. Sawamura, more precisely, has always been this way; quiet at all the right moments, brooding just when he needs to be. A reliable constant.

Tonight, it is a comfort. It always has been.

“So,” he mutters–his voice is quiet, warm like the night. “Want to tell me why you called tonight?”

You can’t help the sigh that escapes you. “You already know, don’t you?”

The smile that ensues indicates an affirmative. His eyes glimmer with a sympathy you’re all-too accustomed to. “You’ll feel better saying it.” 

The sky is so broad, so clear. The stars are so bright, shining a dazzling gold. You want to lose yourself amongst them.

“He called me tonight,” you say, avoiding his gaze. You’re certain Sawamura has heard this all before from you, but it spills from your lips nonetheless. It’s a pathetic feeling to succumb to; there’s a burning in your ears as you speak. “Had me come over and everything.”

“As he does,” Sawamura says, and you nod. 

“As he does,” you repeat. “Well, anyway, I went over, right? And he decided today would be the  _ perfect _ time to blow up. Again.”

Sawamura hums thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he tells you, and you groan.

“Don’t even get me started,” you grumble, letting your head fall into your hands. 

Sawamura has long grown familiar with your boyfriend’s antics and temperamental outbursts; you’d been together since the second year of highschool, and now, four years down the line, things still aren’t any more pleasant for the two of you than they were back in the beginning. 

“I just don’t see what his problem is!” you exclaim, running a hand through your hair. “One minute he tells me I’m the love of his life, and then the next he’s throwing a hissy fit because apparently he can’t  _ trust me _ .” Your hair is tousled from your movements and is beginning to fall into your eyes. “Says I’m around other guys too much. That I’m selling myself off. But when  _ he’s  _ snuggling up to other girls, he’s just being  _ friendly? _ ”

“That’s bullshit,” Sawamura comments, and you nod fervently.

“ _ Exactly _ !” you agree. “God, Dai, you have no idea. He took me ring shopping yesterday, you know? Had me try a bunch on and everything. And now all of a sudden he’s blowing up in my face, telling me I’m sleeping around–”

“Which you aren’t–”

“I told him that!” you moan. “I told him that, and he just got even madder!” Then, all at once, the anger seems to dissipate–you deflate, shoulders hunching into themselves. “Honestly, Daichi, why do I put up with this?”

Sawamura doesn’t reply at first, instead opting to rest a hand gently on your back. You feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of your shirt, and lean back into it. 

You want to cry. You want to feel tears spilling out of your eyes and down your cheeks and onto the fabric of your shorts. You want to wail and scream and you want to fall and sob into someone’s arms–

You want release, but nothing comes. Your throat feels tight, constricted.

You lean further into him. His hand rubs circles into you; small, controlled, firm. 

“What do you see in him?” Sawamura mutters; you can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t dare look up.

You laugh at first; but it’s all bark, and it comes out cold and dry. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “I mean, he’s good to me, right? Buys me flowers and stuff. Says he’ll take care of me in the future. Puts up with all my crap. Tells me he loves me. That kinda thing.”

“And you’re thinking of marrying him?”

“He seems intent on it,” you answer. “Says it’ll be nice, y’know? Raise a family, grow old together. It’ll be comfortable.”

Sawamura sighs, long and deep. “(Y/N),” he says, the name rolling off of his tongue. His voice is stronger now; the hand on your back travels upward to your shoulder, and he holds firmly onto it. You look to him and meet his gaze; the brown stares straight into you. “Is this really what  _ you _ want?”

“It won’t be that bad,” you mumble. You turn your head away, but the hand remains there.

“You’re lying to yourself,” he tells you.

You inhale sharply. He’s right, and you know he is, but it stings nonetheless. “Maybe,” you agree. There’s a quiver in your voice. “But it’s easier this way, isn’t it?” you whisper. “I don’t want to disappoint him. And besides–highschool sweethearts. My mom loves him, his mom loves me. Everything’s aligned just right. Don’t these kinds of things only come once?”

It’s Sawamura’s turn to run his hands through his hair; the rustle is loud in the quiet of the night. 

“Will you be happy?” he asks you.

You blink.

“Maybe I’ll learn to be.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then that’ll be that, won’t it?” you say quietly.

The look Sawamura gives you is disbelieving, incredulous. It’s a strange look on him; eyes widened, eyebrows knitted tightly together, jaw slack. He rises to his feet, and the chain of his swing seat lets out an old, rusted groan. You’re almost afraid to meet his eyes. “Stand up, (Y/N).”

“Daichi–”

“Stand.”

You comply, shuffling to your feet.

“I’m taking you home,” he tells you. “I’m taking you home, and you’re going to get some rest and think on this again in the morning.” His eyes are narrowed, stern. “You can’t just give up on yourself like that.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

He wraps his hand around your wrist. And without another word, the two of you set off.

  


* * *

  


Several weeks later, Sugawara’s birthday calls for a makeshift reunion.

The boy in question swings the door open as soon as you’re standing by the doorstep; you’ve hardly had time to ring the doorbell, let alone knock. “Glad you could make it, (Y/N)!” Sugawara chirrups, motioning you in. His grin is as wide as always. “Get me any gifts?” he asks cheekily, hands clasped behind his back.

You laugh, rummaging through your bag before procuring a neatly-wrapped box. “Of course,” you say, handing it to him. 

“This is why we’re friends,” he says, throwing you a thumbs-up. You mirror the gesture with a chuckle. “What’d you get me, I wonder?” He shakes the box. “It’s heavy..”

You slip out of your trainers and line them up neatly against the door. “You’ll see when you open it later,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Let’s go in?”

“Oh, right, come in, come in!” He waves you through into the living room and drops your gift onto the coffee table, where a large mass of wrapped gifts has congregated. It’s relatively crowded, and there’s a bustle of conversation in the air; you recognize many of the figures around you from your highschool days.

“You’re popular as always,” you tell him, and Sugawara laughs.

“It’s the mark of a good upperclassman,” he declares. “By the way,” he says, voice lowering, “don’t look now, but there’s a certain someone in the corner that’s been eyeing you since you came in.”

You look anyway, disregarding his warning. 

Sawamura’s eyes light up when you catch his gaze, and he flashes a smile your way.

“I told you not to look!” Sugawara grumbles. “Well, anyway, he’s been waiting for you–better not keep him there any longer, yeah?” He pats you on the back. “See you around, (Y/N)!”

“Happy birthday, Suga,” you laugh, waving as he drifts away to make conversation with the others.

Sawamura’s smile is as warm as ever as you make your way towards him. He’s seated in a rather plush armchair; you perch yourself atop the armrest by his side.

“Long time no see,” you tease.

“It hasn’t been  _ that _ long,” he laughs, leaning back into plush cushioning. “A few weeks, maybe.”

“That’s long enough, right?” He hums and nods.

The two of you watch your surroundings for a moment. You catch sight of Azumane by the kitchen, pouring himself a drink–only to have it overflow and spill onto the counter, much to the amusement of a smaller man beside him. You let out a snicket, and it seems like Sawamura has seen the same thing, because he lets out a hearty chuckle shortly after. 

“Poor Asahi,” he mutters, shaking his head fondly at the man. Azumane has begun stammering out apologies now, his hands scrambling for a towel to wipe the counter down with. More people have caught sight of the fumble now, and there’s a murmur of excitement and laughter surrounding the flustered man, much to his chagrin. “Noya will have a go at him later, I’m sure.” You assume Noya is the aforementioned smaller man beside him, cackling in near-tears. 

The commotion dies down after some time, and your attention turns back to the man beside you.

“So,” you start, watching as his eyes flicker to yours. There’s gold in his brown, as familiar as ever. “About the other night–I gave it some thought. And I dumped him the day after.

Sawamura startles. “Seriously?” he says, straightening. He’s moved closer now, leaned in a little more, brows furrowed. “I’m really sorry, (Y/N).”

You wave a hand to dismiss him. “You don’t have to apologize. You were right, y’know.”

“About?”

“Lying to myself,” you say. “Giving up. Pretty much everything.” You tilt your head and offer him a small smile, despite the faint ache in your chest. “Thank you, by the way. For being there.”

“Of course,” is his reply, a hand traveling to rest on the small of your back. His eyes are on the crowd again, but you can tell his attention is still on you; his thumb moves to stroke the fabric of your shirt. “Are you happy?” he asks. “With your decision?”

You ponder it for a moment. “Maybe a little sad,” you say. “Kind of like I’ve lost an old friend. But I think it was the right choice.”

He smiles. “I’m glad,” he tells you. “And hey, y’know, while we’re here..” He stands up then, and motions for you to do the same. You scramble to your feet. Someone passes by carrying a tray of drinks; Sawamura passes one to you, and you take it in your hands. “Maybe some fun will help you get your mind off of him?”

You let out a laugh, and bring the drink to your lips.

“Let’s do it, then.”

  


* * *

  


Sawamura invites you out that weekend—he cites some bar or other nearby.

“To help take your mind off of things,” is his initial justification, a first week’s reasoning. You agree to the proposition, of course—you enjoy your time with Sawamura as it is, so scheduling some extra time is nothing less than a pleasure. His dancing that night is atrocious, and you’re sure yours is the same, but you find yourself laughing harder than you have in months. 

One invite, however, led to the next—a coffee shop somewhere downtown.

“Asahi’s favorite,” he tells you, and you trust your old classmate’s taste, so you follow along with no objections. It’s a quaint little store, run by an old elderly couple that smiles warmly at the two of you as you scan through their menu. The atmosphere is lovely and homely, but that’s one thing; their coffee is, unsurprisingly, delicious.

“We  _ need  _ to come back here,” you tell Sawamura, a steamed bun cradled within your hands. You have long since finished your coffee, and Sawamura is just about draining his last drop.

“Next weekend, then?” he offers. Through a mouthful of the pork bun, you nod. “Perfect–it’s settled, then. There’s an ice cream shop nearby that you’ll love, too, and a lovely  _ taiyaki _ stall..”

And so the next few weeks pass in the same way; the two of you text through the workweek, exchanging calls and jokes amongst yourselves before meeting once a week in person for a lunch (or, on some occasions, a dinner) and a day out. It quickly becomes a comfortable, stable routine–and Sawamura is generally a comfortable, stable guy, so it all feels perfectly natural.

He is the highlight of your weeks.

You have no complaints.

Things grow easier from then on; your nights out often devolve into lazy nights  _ in _ , complete with monstrous piles of snacks and a steady supply of alcohol–because Sawamura is as big of a drinker as he is an eater, and you’re certainly warming up to his habits. Sleepovers become common, too, because the gentle lull of sleep with a blanket draped over the two of you is much too difficult to resist.

You stash a spare toothbrush at his place. 

He makes sure to do the same at yours.

  


* * *

  


Months later, you awaken in the middle of the night. There’s a buzz emanating from the television; the channels have long stopped broadcasting, and the thrum of static rings through Sawamura’s living room. The man in question is snoring softly, arms thrown over the couch; he’s not loud enough to disturb anyone by any means, but just loud enough that you can’t help but chuckle.

You step up and off of the couch, being careful not to disturb Sawamura in his slumber. Your phone is on the coffee table; you give it a tap, and the screen flashes on, blue light streaming into the room. It reads an ungodly hour.

Sawamura stirs slightly, and you startle, glancing back at him; the blanket has fallen just slightly off of his shoulder.

He looks peaceful; his expression is relaxed, and his lips are parted ever so slightly. His hair has been growing longer as of late; it falls over his face in gentle wisps. The light of the television falls delicately along the slopes of his features.

You smile and press a kiss to his forehead.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to hug Sawamura Daichi. Intensely.
> 
> This is my first time writing for anyone in HQ! I'm excited to continue adding to this collection as I explore more characters–the pieces will probably vary in themes and in length, but I hope you'll stick around! Any feedback is greatly appreciated! :)


	2. Cleanliness (Tsukishima Kei)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you and Tsukishima Kei find yourselves in a situationship.
> 
> (Flirting ensues.)

He tastes pristine; sweet and fresh and lively. Like evening showers in the spring.

You pull away, a string of saliva falling against your bottom lip; you’re sure your lips are red and swollen by now, bruised purple with attention. Strands of your hair have fallen in wisps along your face.

He doesn’t look any worse for wear, somehow, though there’s a grin there that you can’t help but catch. His glasses are folded neatly and hang along the collar of his shirt; his hair lays as it always does, blonde locks swept casually to one side. His eyebrows are raised in a blatant, unabashed amusement.

Your first instinct is to laugh, hands pushing playfully at his chest. “You’re the worst,” you chuckle, hands already moving to run through your hair–a feeble attempt at taming it, you think, though it brings a sense of satisfaction regardless. “What’s up with you looking so good all the time?”

“Did you expect anything less?” Tsukishima says. He takes a step back and begins wiping at the lens of his glasses; he’s meticulous about smudges. Once satisfied, he brings the frames up and sets them on the bridge of his nose; his eyes narrow in amusement as they catch sight of you. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

“And whose fault is that?” you shoot back, attempting to straighten the collar of your uniform. 

You don’t miss the smirk that widens on his face. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Oh, shut up.” You throw a pointed glare his way, though the reaction you receive is less than satisfactory; Tsukishima throws his head back in a bark of laughter. “Tsukishima, shut  _ up _ !” you say, louder this time–though the malice of the words dissipates with the giggles that ensue. 

Soon, the two of you are laughing together, backs pressed against the classroom wall, knees tucked to your chests. 

(He’s got a nice laugh–restrained in volume, but deep and resounding and genuine.)

The Class-4 representatives are painfully oblivious to your afterschool antics. Privately, you’re grateful for their naivete. It’s only thanks to them, after all, that your cleaning-duty dates have continued.

Tsukishima’s back on his feet before you are, wiping at the knees of his slacks. Spots of dust fall to the ground, a pale gray fluttering down onto the cool wood beneath you. “This is your fault,” he tells you, flicking a particularly stubborn fleck at your face. It falls onto your cheek; you splutter as you wipe it off. “If you hadn’t distracted me, maybe we would have gotten some actual cleaning done.”

You scoff in mock offense. “You started it,” you reply, standing up in turn. He’s right, though; there’s a thin layer of dust coating your bottoms, and you brush it hastily away. You scramble to his side as he picks the discarded mops back up from the ground, making sure to take yours in hand as well.

The sun has already begun to set; the classroom is enveloped in a pale orange.

Tsukishima dips his mop into the bucket, and gives the tips a squeeze. The droplets of water trickle down into the bucket in a rhythmic  _ pitter-patter _ . “I think you’re mistaken,” he tells you, pressing his mop against varnished wooden flooring. “You leaned in first,” are his words. He steps towards one corner of the room and begins his mopping. 

You mirror his actions, wetting your mop and doing the same. “You texted me this morning, though,” you tell him, trying to hide the smirk you feel tugging at your lips. “What was it you said?  _ I want you to– _ ”

“Don’t finish that sentence, (Y/N),” he drawls. Then, pausing in his movements, he turns to look to you. There’s a glint in his eyes. “Unless, of course, you want to talk about what you sent me last night?” The tips of your ears have begun to burn. “That photo of yours..” He’s smirking now, a single eyebrow cocked upward; his elbow rests atop the handle of his mop.

You avert your eyes away from his, but his gaze feels hot on yours; he’s boring holes into the side of your head. “I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about,” you say, despite the warmth in your ears. You swirl your mop around aimlessly.

He laughs again, and, satisfied with his victory, resumes his movements.

You resolve to get him back later.

* * *

Tsukishima walks you home that day; it’s become customary for the two of you, like a weekly ritual of sorts. It works perfectly; neither your photography club nor Tsukishima’s volleyball club meets on Mondays, and Yamaguchi has cram school to attend, which means the remainder of the afternoon is yours to do with as you please.

Sometimes, though, hanging out with Tsukishima is more of a pain than anything.

“Stop putting your elbow on me!” you exclaim, pushing the boy’s arm away. He’s taken to using you as an armrest as of late, and the mockery is irritating–to say the least. “I’m not your personal armchair,” you grumble. 

You want to wipe that smug smile off of his face.

“Aw, getting all upset?” he taunts. His bag is slung over his shoulder; his headphones hang over his neck. “I can’t help it, y’know–you’re the perfect size to take advantage of.”

The elbow returns, and you let out a groan.

“I hate you,” you grumble, making sure he sees the discontent in your eyes. You jut out your bottom lip for emphasis.

He rolls his eyes, making a point to press his elbow firmer into your scalp; the two of you take a left turn. “Tell me something I  _ don’t _ know,” he replies, adjusting his grip on his bag. Its contents rustle within–the bulk of the noise, you’re sure, is composed of long-discarded candy wrappers. “Anyway, consider it payment for me walking you home.” 

“I never  _ asked _ you to start following me home,” you say. “You’re the one that chose to in the first place.”

“Playing the blame game again, I see?” It’s your turn to roll your eyes now. You reach up and push his elbow aside; this time, the arm doesn’t return. 

The two of you walk on for a little while longer before your house comes into view.

“Do you wanna come in?” you ask him, half-jokingly; your hand is already pushing open the gate to let yourself in. 

“Never in a million years,” he answers, laughing.

You laugh back, and shut the gate behind you. “See you tomorrow, then,” you say, watching as he turns to walk away.

“See you.”

* * *

Yamaguchi Tadashi doesn’t speak to you much, though he looks at you with thoughtful eyes. Sometimes you feel him watching you during class, sharp eyes taking in your every movement. 

His curiosity is painfully evident, but understandable. You’re sure he asks Tsukishima about you, privately, when he’s well out of your earshot. Maybe during volleyball practice, when it’s just the two of them together; maybe between drills. Maybe after school–you’ve seen them walking home together.

Or maybe right now. It’s a particularly dull math class, you have to admit–your teacher is droning on and on about derivatives or something along those lines, and you truly cannot find it in you to care. 

Yamaguchi seems to be feeling a similar way, because you catch him in the corner of your eye, leaning forward in his seat to mutter something or other to Tsukishima. The two of them sit around the center of the class; not ideal, surely, for whispering during lectures, but they seem to be accomplishing it nonetheless.

Their whispering, of course, is no odd occurrence; what strikes you, however, is the nervous glances Yamaguchi keeps tossing you. His eyes flick back and forth between Tsukishima’s figure and yours as he continues under hushed breaths. You pretend not to notice, fixing your eyes down at your notebook and scrawling mindless lines onto the page. 

And then Tsukishima glances up at you, and you’re torn away in an instant.

The two of you lock eyes. His are lazy and hazel and lidded; yours are wide, attentive. 

He smiles, just barely—and then turns away. 

Yamaguchi’s whispering halts, but not before he shoots Tsukishima a glare riddled with suspicions. 

* * *

It’s months later that he invites you into his home. The Tsukishima household is clean-swept; it smells like wood varnish and detergent and surface cleaners.

Tsukishima leads you to his room and shuts the door behind, only to return to the room moments later with a tray balanced precariously in one hand; two plates of strawberry shortcake sit atop it, accompanied by steaming cups of green tea. 

“I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but I’d like not to clean any more than I have to,” he drones, watching as your face lights up at the sight of the sweets. He sets the tray down on the table before you two, and moves to cross his legs beside you. 

“How hospitable,” you laugh, spoon already sinking into the fluffy treat. “Thanks for the cake.”

He’s already dug into his own serving; his tongue laps at a dot of cream caught on his lips. “I was hoping you wouldn’t eat your portion so I could take yours.”

“Well, too bad,” you mutter, shoveling the spoon adamantly into your mouth. The airy texture of whipped cream spreads across your mouth, delicate and sweet. “I intend on finishing it, thank you very much.”

He chuckles, and, after another spoonful, sets his plate back down onto the table. “Do you now?” he asks, moving closer. “Nothing better to do, (Y/N)?”

The teasing lilt of his voice is easy to ignore; you’ve long become accustomed to it. “Nothing at all,” you say, raising your chin defiantly at him. “This cake is the only reason I agreed to come, after all.”

“That’s not what you told me last night.”

You laugh good-naturedly, setting your own plate back on the tray. “Maybe so,” is your answer.

“That’s what I thought.” 

He presses a kiss to your lips.

He tastes pristine; sweet and fresh and lively, with just a touch of strawberries on the side.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think Tsukishima would be fairly comfortable with arrangements like these.
> 
> Feedback is appreciated! I'd love to hear anything you have to say. I hope you enjoyed :)


	3. Summertime (Terushima Yuuji)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you ponder the nuances of Terushima Yuuji.

Terushima Yuuji is sharp by all means of the word. 

Physically, he’s as sharp as they come. He’s tall and lanky with lean, gangly limbs; his elbows and knees jut out through the deep green of his blazer, through the dark gray of his slacks. There’s a sharpness to his facial features, too: cheekbones high and defined, jawline straight and angular, neck peaking at an Adam’s Apple that bobs up and down as he swallows, the cartilage staggered in its movements.

As much as you hate to admit it, there’s a sharpness to his mind, too. Something keen and calculated–though none of you miss the irony of the class clown dominating your year’s rankings. Even now, seated at his desk, with his bright red pencil working through some calculus problem or other, with his fingers tapping nimbly at the wood of his table, with his teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek–he looks sharp, alert, attuned. 

There’s a pause in his writing as he looks up, catches your gaze–his bright eyes meeting yours. He offers you a wide grin, sticks out his tongue, grants you a glimpse of shining metal.

As for his senses–hypersensitive ears, flitting eyes on constant watch, an all-seeing peripheral vision—well, sharp hardly scratches the surface.

(Perhaps, if he weren’t quite so sharp, you’d get away with all your staring.)

* * *

The sky is pouring. Wind sweeps through your hair and streaming through the narrow streets, fat droplets of water flying into your face. Summer showers are unpleasant, all humid and sticky and gross; even with thick clouds obscuring the sky, the sun still gleams a radiant warmth. 

There’s a thin sheen of sweat on your skin, a mixture of heat and exertion. You won’t say it, you  _ can’t _ say it—it’ll wound your pride—but, privately, you’re envious of him. 

Free-spirited, unconstrained, untamed—Terushima runs through the rain. Wet golden strands fall into his face, clinging damp against the skin of his forehead. The fabric of his uniform, once-white, now gleams sheer with moisture and hugs the curve of his waist, the dips in his chest, the small of his back. His hands are outstretched, long and lanky as he embraces the sky. The contents of his schoolbag (one strap hangs dangerously off of his right shoulder) are surely soaked by now—the red fabric strains against the added weight of acquired moisture. 

“You’re missing out,” he tells you, and his grin is wide and welcoming—even in your sodden, soaking misery, you want to laugh, join him in a jovial pursuit, throw your arms up into the air and let the world stream down your face.

Instead, ever the responsible one, you fold your arms across your chest in a way you hope comes across as disapproval. “You’ll catch a cold like that,” you scold him, being sure to furrow your brows for extra effect. The effort only seems to amuse him, though, because he barks out a laugh—sharp and clear and pitchy as it always is, slicing through the noise of rainfall around you. 

“And where’s the harm in that?” he teases, sauntering over in your direction. He slings his bag over one shoulder, and it hits his back with a solid  _ thump _ . “A cold’s just a glorified get-out-of-jail-free card, isn’t it? It just means an extra day off from school.”

“And from volleyball practice,” you remind him, waving a finger in warning, “which, judging by your recent matches, you guys desperately need.”

He laughs, good-natured as ever, and runs a hand through his hair. Pale strands slip between his fingers and fall away to frame his face. “What do you mean?” he asks, tone saccharine and words drawn-out. His smile is caught somewhere between a simper and a smirk. “Our team’s doing  _ fantastic _ , thank you very much–a practice or two won’t hurt anyone.”

You roll your eyes. “Should I pass that along to Misaki?”

He puts a finger to his chin and lets out an exaggerated hum. “Should you?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. 

“I’m sure she’d be more than happy to double your drills tomorrow, Yuuji.”

He lets out an extravagant gasp and puts a hand to his chest, widens his eyes as far as they will allow him. His eyebrows quirk upward. “That’s foul play, (Y/N),” he tells you, scandalized.

“Maybe, but it works.”

His brows knit together. Then, his face lights up. A soft  _ aha _ , barely audible over the rain, escapes his lips. “How about,” he offers, “you cut me a deal?” When you raise a brow in apprehension, he grins, one hand pulling on the strap of his bag. “We’ll play a little game. If I win, you keep your mouth shut, and Misaki doesn’t hear a word of today.”

There’s a tension fluttering in your chest and straining against your ribs, building as you suppress the urge to laugh. “And if I win?” you ask, hoping the attempt to steel your expression has been successful. 

He blinks at you. “I didn’t think that far,” he says easily, shrugging. “I just assumed you’d lose.”

Your palm slams against your forehead before you can even register the movement. 

“Anyway, the game, right?” he exclaims, looking excitedly into your eyes. “How does a race sound? Finish line'll be at your place.”

“You’ll slip.”

Lips upturned, knees bent; Terushima Yuuji grins at you, a golden gleam in his eyes. “Slipping is for losers.”

And then he takes off, trainers pounding into the ground, water splashing around him and lifting into the air, streaks of yellow hair flying behind him. 

With a sigh, you pull your bookbag to your chest, and allow yourself to fall into his antics. 

You run; and the wind sweeps through your face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Terushima's a really interesting character. This was a very little drabble–more of a character study than anything–but I'm definitely eager to write more of him in the future.
> 
> Thanks for reading–I'd love to hear your thoughts if you have any!


	4. Special Day (Kozume Kenma)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kozume Kenma takes you on the rare outing.

It's your third anniversary with Kenma.

The boy has never really been one for celebrations. You'd started dating back in your second year of highschool; but, even then, dates and outings between the two of you had been uncommon. Kenma has always preferred the comfort of his own home, the noise of an old video game in the air, the firm weight of a controller in his hands—coupled, of course, with the sensation of you curled lazily up against him, face buried in the crook of his neck. Kenma has always preferred warmth and comfort and familiarity—

So, naturally, his suggestion that morning comes as a shock.

"Let's go out," he mutters, his cheek pressed against your back. He has his arms wrapped around you; the two of you are cuddled up on one side of your shared bed. The blanket, long-neglected, has pooled by your feet.

"Out?" you say; sleep still riddles your voice, and it rasps in your throat. "Like, on a date?"

You feel his nod rather than see it, the movement slow against you. "For lunch, maybe."

Your heart skips a beat. You hope he can't hear it, pressed up against you. "Sure," you reply, leaning back further. His arms pull you closer, wrapping firmer around your skin. "That sounds great, Kenma."

He hums, and reaches over to wrap his fingers around yours.

* * *

Kenma's eyes are keen, watchful. They betray nothing of his thoughts, maintaining a calculated coolness as he scans you up and down; his pupils flit across your outfit. He pauses when he gets to your collar, and he takes a moment to stare intently at it; you squirm under his gaze.

"It's crooked."

A hand reaches up, and you feel a tug on your neck as he adjusts the fabric. He's gentle in his motions, and you lean into the touch, the fleeting pressure of his fingertips against your collarbone.

When he finishes, you clear your throat. "Thanks," you tell him, hoping he hasn't noticed the quickly-rising flush in your cheeks.

"You look nice," he remarks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie; there's a familiar slouch to his posture. His hair is combed, and falls neatly over his face. He looks clean, put-together.

The compliment is simple, but it has you grinning like a schoolkid with a crush. "So do you," you reply.

He lets out an amused huff. 

* * *

He takes you to a ramen shop just by the shopping district; there's a line that snaked outside of its doors. "Kuroo suggested this," he mutters; you don't miss the faint sheepishness in his voice.

After some time, the waitress peers her head out to call the two of you in, and you take a seat at a booth by the door. It isn't the most romantic place by any means, small and packed and bustling—but the food smells good, and his hand is warm and holding yours, so you have no complaints. That, coupled with Kuroo's recommendation; you trust the boy's taste.

You do most of the ordering. Kenma wants a Shoyu ramen with less garlic, and you ask the waitress for less noodles in his portion– “He’s a child, he never finishes it,” you tell her, and she laughs as she scrawls the order down on her notepad.

“I’ll be right back with your food,” she tells you, smiling. You chirp a quick thank you; Kenma nods his head by way of thanks.

“So,” you say, turning to the boy. His hair is tied up in a ponytail now, likely in anticipation of the meal to come; his hands are busy splitting his wooden chopsticks. “I didn’t think you’d want to go out today.”

He blinks up at you once, then twice. “I wanted ramen,” is his reply.

“Is that all?” you laugh, leaning towards him. 

He eyes you suspiciously. “Are you testing me?” he says, one eyebrow quirked upward. 

“Maybe,” you say, smiling up at him. “There must be _some_ reason my homebody boyfriend is taking me out today..” You put a finger to your chin in a mock pensiveness. “Could it be a special day?”

“I wonder,” Kenma mutters, though you don’t miss the upward twitch of his lips.

Just then, the waitress returns, two steaming bowls in hand. “Thanks for waiting!” She sets them down before the both of you; the smell of pork broth is intoxicating. 

Kenma bows his neck. “Let’s eat,” he says, and you roll your eyes. The conversation drops as the two of you dig in.

(You make a mental note to thank Kuroo later.)

* * *

Kenma’s hand is warm around yours as you exit the restaurant. “I want to go somewhere,” he says.

Your shock culminates as a knowing smirk. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans. His hair is over his eyes again, hiding his expression. He starts walking then–and, much to your surprise, heads in the direction opposite of your home. 

“You’re sure today isn’t a special day, right?” He huffs and speeds up his pace in response; you have to jog slightly to keep up with him.

Eventually, the two of you arrive at the nearby park. He drags you towards a wooden bench, and points at it. “Wait here.”

You furrow your brows, but comply, seating yourself on the bench and crossing your legs. “Where are you going?”

“The toilet.” He shoves his hands in his pockets; you can see his fingers fiddling beneath the fabric.

“You’re a bad liar, Kenma.”

“No, I need to pee.”

You roll your eyes. “Have fun peeing, then.”

He smiles. “Thanks.”

* * *

He returns minutes later with two ice cream cones in hand.

“You said you were going to pee?”

“I did,” he says, plopping down next to you with a sigh. He hands you the cone in his left hand; a creamy dark chocolate, your favorite. A part of you is surprised he remembers your order. “I wanted ice cream on the way back.” His own cone is a simple vanilla; he takes a small bite out of its side; he comes away with a drop of cream on his nose.

You chuckle, and reach out to wipe it away with your thumb. “Sure, Kenma,” you say. For good measure, you lean in and press a kiss to the tip of his nose; his eyes flutter obediently shut as you do. 

When you pull away, you lap at your own ice cream; it’s just as you like it. You let out an appreciative sigh, and lean towards him, so that your shoulders touch. “Got anything else planned for today’s occasion, pudding boy?” you tease.

His eyes narrow. “Why are you insulting me? I just bought you ice cream.”

“Do you, though?”

His eyes roll, the movement slow and drawn out. Then, to your surprise, he reaches his free hand into his pocket. “Hold out your hand.”

“Please don’t put a worm on me, Kenma.”

“I don’t have a worm with me.” He sounds amused. “Close your eyes.”

Nodding, you shut your eyes closed, and–somewhat tentatively–stretch your palm out towards him. Something falls against your skin with a jingle.

“You can open them now.”

It’s a charm in the shape of a cat. You close your first around it to pull it towards your chest. 

When you catch sight of him, he’s looking expectantly at you, fiddling his fingers. 

You lean in closer. “Thank you,” you whisper up at him. 

He doesn’t reply, but he leans in towards you, perching his chin atop your head.

“You’re sure today’s not a special day, right?”

You practically feel the roll of his eyes. “If I say it, will you stop asking?”

“Maybe.”

“Happy anniversary, (Y/N).”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really like kenma...
> 
> as always, i hope you enjoyed! do let me know what you thought :)


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